I’m Hungover And I Hate Everything

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Due to the fact that no one in Chicago has any money or liver left after the last month of playoff baseball, last night’s turnout at the bar I work at was similar to that of a kid’s third birthday party. There were maybe 25 people, none of them wanted to be there, and all of them were babysitting their drinks like they were getting paid $10 an hour for it. To counteract this boring night, my bartenders and I chose the tried and true method of getting wasted. We take great pride in our customer service, and as such, taste-tested every beer we serve to make sure the quality was up to par. We also checked the quality of several Jameson shots and at one point, for a reason I can’t comprehend, some well tequila. We got after it, is what I’m trying to say. And now it’s morning, and I just woke up, and I hate everything.

I hate that it’s as bright as the fucking sun in my room. I hate that I have no one to blame for this but myself, as I always purchase the lightest, most see through fucking white curtains. Every place I’ve ever lived, I think about how much I hate that it gets so bright in my room, and I resolve to buy thick curtains at my next place. Then I got into Bed Bath and Beyond, and somehow when I leave that labyrinth an hour later and check my bags, I’ve once again purchased some skimpy-ass curtains. I don’t know what this says about myself, but I hate it. I also hate the fact that birds are chirping right outside my window right now. They’re chirping a beautiful, enchanting melody that speaks of a beautiful day filled with possibilities, and I want to throw a shoe at them. As soon as I get over this hangover, I’m going to go to Home Depot, buy some balsa wood, build a fucking birdhouse, and fill it with vodka-infused water. Then when these birds know what a hangover feels like the next day, I’m going to stand next to them and scream-sing a collection of 80’s hair-metal songs to them. Suck it, Mother Nature.

I hate that I’m going to have to put on pants and go outside. I want to stay on my couch watching Black Mirror episodes until I lose faith in humanity and weep for the next few hours, but I can’t do that because I’m fucking hungry. I’m going to have to put on pants, and a shirt, and probably even a jacket because even though it’s bright as the Sahara Desert outdoors, it’s also cold AF, because the Midwest is the worst. And then, because there’s no bagel joint within five blocks of me, I’m going to have to get on the train. There is nothing worse than public transportation when you’re hungover. I can already tell you who’s going to be in my train car. One homeless man, who, though I feel bad for his plight, I cannot bear to smell right now. At least six small children, probably running amok and screaming up and down the car while their mother mindlessly scrolls through her phone. She will be in the stage of parenthood where as long as none of the children are bleeding, she couldn’t care less what else they’re doing. There will also be a teenage couple engaging in an intense makeout because there is nothing more erotically stimulating than hard plastic seats that smell like stranger’s vomit.

I hate how long I’m going to have to wait in line for my bagel, I hate that this guy is going to somehow fuck up my order of “two plain bagels, toasted, with cream cheese,” and I hate that I’m going to undoubtedly drop cream cheese on my joggers that I just washed. I hate that my girlfriend’s birthday party is today, and I hate that she chose to do a Beer Olympics as a celebration of her turning 25. As if I’m not already hyper aware of my own quarter-life crisis, she has to rub it in my face that I’m not the man I used to be by making me play drinking games I used to excel at. I hate that I’m going to drink one million beers, and instead of getting fucked up and loving life like I did in college, I’m going to feel bloated and want to take a nap. Also, I hate myself for writing that sentence.

I hate that I’m already receiving snaps from my friends still in college that have started tailgating. I hate that I have not been able to return to my alma mater for a tailgate/game this year. I hate these 19-year-olds in the snap videos that are pouring champagne on girls in crop tops like they’re in a fucking Ja Rule music video. I hate that they probably don’t even know who that is. I hate them for having no cares in the world except for what the theme of their next party will be (probably beach-themed because it’s always summer in California). I hate that if I were back there partying with them, I wouldn’t even enjoy it because I’d feel old AF and would rather drink somewhere with a good jukebox selection and comfy bar stools.

The only thing I don’t hate right now is this delicious Bloody Mary I’ve been enjoying. Not to talk myself up too much, but I crushed it. The perfect amount of spicy and sweet, with just a hint of Worcestershire Sauce. As I sip it and write this column, I’ve started feeling a lot better about my outlook on life. The more I think about, I’m pretty excited to go to this Beer Olympics, and the bagel I get on the way is going to be fire. And really, who am I to judge the couple that’ll be making out on the train? Young love is a beautiful thing. You know what, I’m glad I have these thin curtains, because, without them, I would have slept in and missed out on this beautiful day. I’m gonna make another one of these bloodies for the road, and head out into a future filled with sunlight and bird songs. There’s no way I’ll feel this bad again tomorrow morning. .

Image via YouTube

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Nick Arcadia

The opposite of a life coach. Email or DM me if you want some bad advice: nickarcadiapgp@gmail.com

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